“Judy, Judy!” Jane Foster called out. “Come here with your basket; what you staying for?”
Judith returned to her.
“We’ve got to get a move on,” said Jane, “or we shan’t get nothin’ done before supper time. What was you lookin’ at?”
“There’s a picture in there of a little girl I know,” Judith said. “I don’t know her name, but I saw her in the Park once and—and I dreamed about her.”
“Dreamed about her? If that ain’t queer. Well, we’ve got to hurry up. Here’s some more of them dropped flowers. Give me the basket.”
They went through the whole house together, from room to room, up the many stairs, from floor to floor, and everywhere Judith felt the curious stillness and silence. It can not be doubted that Jane Foster felt it also.
“It is the stillest house I was ever in,” she said. “I’m glad I’ve got you with me, Judy. If I was sole alone I believe it ’ud give me the creeps. These big places ought to have big families in them.”
It was on the fourth floor that they came upon the Closed Room. Jane had found some of the doors shut and some open, but a turn of the handle gave entrance through all the unopened ones until they reached this one at the back on the fourth floor.
“This one won’t open,” Jane said, when she tried the handle. Then she shook it once or twice. “No, it’s locked,” she decided after an effort or two. “There, I’ve just remembered. There’s one kept locked. Folks always has things they want locked up. I’ll make sure, though.”
She shook it, turned the handle, shook again, pressed her knee against the panel. The lock resisted all effort.
“Yes, this is the closed one,” she made up her mind. “It’s locked hard and fast. It’s the closed one.”
It was logically proved to be the closed one by the fact that she found no other one locked as she finished her round of the chambers.
Judith was a little tired before they had done their work. But her wandering pilgrimage through the large, silent, deserted house had been a revelation of new emotions to her. She was always a silent child. Her mind was so full of strange thoughts that it seemed unnecessary to say many words. The things she thought as she followed her from room to room, from floor to floor, until they reached the locked door, would have amazed and puzzled Jane Foster if she had known of their existence. Most of all, perhaps, she would have been puzzled by the effect the closed door had upon the child. It puzzled and bewildered Judith herself and made her feel a little weary.
She wanted so much to go into the room. Without in the least understanding the feeling, she was quite shaken by it. It seemed as if the closing of all the other rooms would have been a small matter in comparison with the closing of this one. There was something inside which she wanted to see—there was something—somehow there was something which wanted to see her. What a pity that the door was locked! Why had it been done? She sighed unconsciously several times during the evening, and Jane Foster thought she was tired.
“But you’ll sleep cool enough to-night, Judy,” she said. “And get a good rest. Them little breezes that comes rustling through the trees in the Park comes right along the street to us.”
She and Jem Foster slept well. They spent the evening in the highest spirits and—as it seemed to them—the most luxurious comfort. The space afforded them by the big basement, with its kitchen and laundry and pantry, and, above all, the specially large room which had been used for billiard playing, supplied actual vistas. For the sake of convenience and coolness they used the billiard room as a dormitory, sleeping on light cots, and they slept with all their windows open, the little breezes wandering from among the trees of the Park to fan them. How they laughed and enjoyed themselves over their supper, and how they stretched themselves out with sighs of joy in the darkness as they sank into the cool, untroubled waters of deep sleep.
“This is about the top notch,” Jem murmured as he lost his hold on the world of waking life and work.
But though she was cool, though she was undisturbed, though her body rested in absolute repose, Judith did not sleep for a long time. She lay and listened to the quietness. There was mystery in it. The footstep of a belated passer-by in the street woke strange echoes; a voice heard in the distance in a riotous shout suggested weird things. And as she lay and listened, it was as if she were not only listening but waiting for something. She did not know at all what she was waiting for, but waiting she was.
She lay upon her cot with her arms flung out and her eyes wide open. What was it that she wanted—that which was in the closed room? Why had they locked the door? If they had locked the doors of the big parlours it would not have mattered. If they had locked the door of the library—her mind paused—as if for a moment, something held it still. Then she remembered that to have locked the doors of the library would have been to lock in the picture of the child with the greeting look in her eyes and the fine little uplifted hand. She was glad the room had been left open. But the room up-stairs—the one on the fourth floor—that was the one that mattered most of all. She knew that to-morrow she must go and stand at the door and press her cheek against the wood and wait—and listen. Thinking this and knowing that it must be so, she fell—at last—asleep.
PART TWO
Judith climbed the basement stairs rather slowly. Her mother was busy rearranging the disorder the hastily departing servants had left. Their departure had indeed been made in sufficient haste to have left behind the air of its having been flight. There was a great deal to be done, and Jane Foster, moving about with broom and pail and scrubbing brushes, did not dislike the excitement of the work before her. Judith’s certainty that she would not be missed made all clear before her. If her absence was observed her mother would realize that the whole house lay open to her and that she was an undisturbing element wheresoever she was led either by her fancy or by circumstance. If she went into the parlours she would probably sit and talk to herself or play quietly with her shabby doll. In any case she would be finding pleasure of her own and would touch nothing which could be harmed.
When the child found herself in the entrance hall she stopped a few moments to look about her. The stillness seemed to hold her and she paused to hear and feel it. In leaving the basement behind, she had left the movement of living behind also. No one was alive upon this floor—nor upon the next—nor the next. It was as if one had entered a new world—a world in which something existed which did not express itself in sound or in things which one could see. Chairs held out their arms to emptiness—cushions were not pressed by living things—only the people in the pictures were looking at something, but one could not tell what they were looking at.
But on the fourth floor was the Closed Room, which she must go to—because she must go to it—that was all she knew.
She began to mount the stairs which led to the upper floors. Her shabby doll was held against her hip by one arm, her right hand touched the wall as she went, she felt the height of the wall as she looked upward. It was such a large house and so empty. Where had the people gone and why had they left it all at once as if they were afraid? Her father had only heard vaguely that they had gone because they had had trouble.
She passed the second floor, the third, and climbed towards the fourth. She could see the door of the Closed Room as she went up step by step, and she found herself moving more quickly. Yes, she must get to it—she must put her hand on it—her chest began to rise and fall with a quickening of her breath, and her breath quickened because her heart fluttered—as if with her haste. She began to be glad, and if any one could have seen her they would have been struck by a curious expectant smile in her eyes.
She reached the landing and crossed it, running the last few steps lightly. She did not wait or stand still a moment. With the strange expectant smile on her lips as well as in her eyes, she put her hand upon the door—not upon the handle, but upon the panel. Without any sound it swung quietly open. And without any sound she stepped quietly inside.
“I wish they were not dead,” she said softly to the silence. “It would be like a garden if they were not dead.”
The sun was hot, but a cool, little breeze seemed straying up from among the trees of the Park. It even made the dried leaves of the flowers tremble and rustle a little. Involuntarily she lifted her face to the blue sky and floating white clouds. They seemed so near that she felt almost as if she could touch them with her hand. The street seemed so far—so far below—the whole world seemed far below. If one stepped off the parapet it would surely take one a long time to reach the earth. She knew now why she had come up here. It was so that she might feel like this—as if she was upheld far away from things—as if she had left everything behind—almost as if she had fallen awake again. There was no perfume in the air, but all was still and sweet and clear.
Suddenly she turned and went into the room again, realizing that she had scarcely seen it at all and that she must see and know it. It was not like any other room she had seen. It looked more simple, though it was a pretty place. The walls were covered with roses, there were bright pictures, and shelves full of books. There was also a little writing desk and there were two or three low chairs, and a low table. A closet in a corner had its door ajar and Judith could see that inside toys were piled together. In another corner a large doll’s house stood, looking as if some one had just stopped playing with it. Some toy furniture had been taken out and left near it upon the carpet.
“It was a little girl’s room,” Judith said. “Why did they close it?”
Her eye was caught by something lying on a sofa—something covered with a cloth. It looked almost like a child lying there asleep—so fast asleep that it did not stir at all. Judith moved across to the sofa and drew the cloth aside. With its head upon a cushion was lying there a very large doll, beautifully dressed in white lace, its eyes closed, and a little wreath of dead flowers in its hair.
“It looks almost as if it had died too,” said Judith.
She did not ask herself why she said “as if it had died too”—perhaps it was because the place was so still—and everything so far away—that the flowers had died in the strange, little deserted garden on the roof.
She did not hear any footsteps—in fact, no ghost of a sound stirred the silence as she stood looking at the doll’s sleep—but quite quickly she ceased to bend forward, and turned round to look at something which she knew was near her. There she was—and it was quite natural she should be there—the little girl with the face like a white flower, with the quantity of burnished coppery hair and the smile which deepened the already deep dimple near her mouth.
“You have come to play with me,” she said.
“Yes,” answered Judith. “I wanted to come all night. I could not stay down-stairs.”
“No,” said the child; “you can’t stay down-stairs. Lift up the doll.”
They began to play as if they had spent their lives together. Neither asked the other any questions. Judith had not played with other children, but with this one she played in absolute and lovely delight. The little girl knew where all the toys were, and there were a great many beautiful ones. She told Judith where to find them and how to arrange them for their games. She invented wonderful things to do—things which were so unlike anything Judith had ever seen or heard or thought of that it was not strange that she realized afterwards that all her past life and its belongings had been so forgotten as to be wholly blotted out while she was in the Closed Room. She did not know her playmate’s name, she did not remember that there were such things as names. Every moment was happiness. Every moment the little girl seemed to grow more beautiful in the flower whiteness of her face and hands and the strange lightness and freedom of her movements. There was an ecstasy in looking at her—in feeling her near.
Not long before Judith went down-stairs she found herself standing with her outside the window in among the withered flowers.
“It was my garden,” the little girl said. “It has been so hot and no one has been near to water them, so they could not live.”
She went lightly to one of the brown rose-bushes and put her pointed-fingered little hand quite near it. She did not touch it, but held her hand near—and the leaves began to stir and uncurl and become fresh and tender again, and roses were nodding, blooming on the stems. And she went in the same manner to each flower and plant in turn until all the before dreary little garden was bright and full of leaves and flowers.
“It’s Life,” she said to Judith. Judith nodded and smiled back at her, understanding quite well just as she had understood the eyes of the bird who had swung on the twig so near her cheek the day she had hidden among the bushes in the Park.
“Now, you must go,” the little girl said at last. And Judith went out of the room at once—without waiting or looking back, though she knew the white figure did not stir till she was out of sight.
It was not until she had reached the second floor that the change came upon her. It was a great change and a curious one. The Closed Room became as far away as all other places and things had seemed when she had stood upon the roof feeling the nearness of the blueness and the white clouds—as when she had looked round and found herself face to face with the child in the Closed Room. She suddenly realized things she had not known before. She knew that she had heard no voice when the little girl spoke to her—she knew that it had happened, that it was she only who had lifted the doll—who had taken out the toys—who had arranged the low table for their feast, putting all the small service upon it—and though they had played with such rapturous enjoyment and had laughed and feasted—what had they feasted on? That she could not recall—and not once had she touched or been touched by the light hand or white dress—and though they seemed to express their thoughts and intentions freely she had heard no voice at all. She was suddenly bewildered and stood rubbing her hand over her forehead and her eyes—but she was happy—as happy as when she had fallen awake in her sleep—and was no more troubled or really curious than she would have been if she had had the same experience every day of her life.
“Well, you must have been having a good time playing up-stairs,” Jane Foster said when she entered the big kitchen. “This is going to do you good, Judy. Looks like she’d had a day in the country, don’t she, Jem?”
Through the weeks that followed her habit of “playing up-stairs” was accepted as a perfectly natural thing. No questions were asked and she knew it was not necessary to enter into any explanations.
Every day she went to the door of the Closed Room and, finding it closed, at a touch of her hand upon the panel it swung softly open. There she waited—sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorter time—and the child with the coppery hair came to her. The world below was gone as soon as she entered the room, and through the hours they played together joyously as happy children play. But in their playing it was always Judith who touched the toys—who held the doll—who set the little table for their feast. Once as she went down-stairs she remembered that when she had that day made a wreath of roses from the roof and h
ad gone to put it on her playmate’s head, she had drawn back with deepened dimple and, holding up her hand, had said, laughing: “No. Do not touch me.”
But there was no mystery in it after all. Judith knew she should presently understand.
She was so happy that her happiness lived in her face in a sort of delicate brilliance. Jane Foster observed the change in her with exceeding comfort, her view being that spacious quarters, fresh air, and sounder sleep had done great things for her.
“Them big eyes of hers ain’t like no other child’s eyes I’ve ever seen,” she said to her husband with cheerful self-gratulation. “An’ her skin’s that fine an’ thin an’ fair you can jest see through it. She always looks to me as if she was made out of different stuff from me an’ you, Jem. I’ve always said it.”
“She’s going to make a corking handsome girl,” responded Jem with a chuckle.
They had been in the house two months, when one afternoon, as she was slicing potatoes for supper, Jane looked round to see the child standing at the kitchen doorway, looking with a puzzled expression at some wilted flowers she held in her hand. Jane’s impression was that she had been coming into the room and had stopped suddenly to look at what she held.
“What’ve you got there, Judy?” she asked.
“They’re flowers,” said Judith, her eyes still more puzzled.
“Where’d you get ’em from? I didn’t know you’d been out. I thought you was up-stairs.”
“I was,” said Judith quite simply. “In the Closed Room.”
Jane Foster’s knife dropped into her pan with a splash.
“Well,” she gasped.
Judith looked at her with quiet eyes.
“The Closed Room!” Jane cried out. “What are you saying? You couldn’t get in?”
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